


long seasons of heavy rain

by carverhawke



Category: Heavy Rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-04 22:32:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4155465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carverhawke/pseuds/carverhawke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And people always got lost in the rain.</p><p>---</p><p>Some quick Heavy Rain drabbles I did in creative writing class a while ago. Each one is a character study, of sorts. Beware of spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. catching death

**Author's Note:**

> so yeah i'm not entirely sure how to describe these except how i did in the description.
> 
> we got some prompts and we were supposed to write prose and a minimalist piece to each one so naturally i did most of mine on heavy rain. the prompts will be italicized, if anyone's curious
> 
> they're all pretty short but i'll just separate them all into different chapters in case i write more and decide to add them in. also i guess this way i can provide a little explanation for each one
> 
> also i can't keep the cool fonts i had for the title and the prompt this is an outrage.  
> anyway this one's just norman jayden bc i love that guy and why does he always suffer god dammit. i mean he's suffering in this but that doesn't mean im not sad.

**catching death.**

* * *

 

 _One day when the snow lay thick on the ground_ , he decided to lose himself in the empty trees. It was a test, kind of, a sort of experiment, to see how much of _this_ he can remove, how much of _this_ the fresh, bitter air can really heal.

Not so much, it seems.

He woke up in that icy cold, buried, almost, by the banks and by the shadow. He was trembling still, and not from the cold, the leftovers of _that_ , the old pain, the old ache, the old regret. He should take it, shouldn’t he? He should take it, pull that little vial out of his pocket and _take it_ , it would make him feel warm, it always made him feel warm, that bitter euphoria, that gentle misery, that suffocating bliss. He should _take it_. He should _take it_ and it will all go away.

But he shouldn’t. He doesn’t want to. He thinks it will kill him, this time, this miserable thing. Maybe not for real, maybe not the _forever_ kind, the _in the ground kind_ , the _burned up in ashes spread across the roaring sea_ kind, but some piece of him, some chunk of his bottomless heart, _that_ kind. He doesn’t want to die that way. No, not that way.

Hypothermia warms you, doesn’t it? Just before the end. He’s so cold.

He thinks it does.


	2. (it was)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yes, i am adding every chapter at once. why? why not. they're so goddamn short there's really no point in waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is from the point of view of the killer. his name isn't mentioned, in case you aren't already aware of his identity, but it does go into his motives.
> 
> once again, the prompt that inspired this is italicized.

_**(it was)** _

* * *

 

When he first went into waiting, his hands would not stop shaking. He almost did not believe it had come to this, did not _want_ to believe it had come to this. It had come to this. On the little screen, the little boy made little cries, feeble cries for help, and he remembered, he _remembered_. He'd tried to make it different but it was all still the same — a little boy, a little heart, a little water, a little rain. A failing faith, a failing father. But the father didn't have to fail, did he? It was all the same, always the same, but it could still be different. It could still be different one day. All he wanted was for the ending to change.

When he last went into waiting, his heart would not stop shaking. He knew it would come to this, this again, this again, this again, and he thinks he _needs_ it to end this way, needs it to go again and again and again, raining circles down a drain. And in all this time, the story is always the same, it's like reading the same sad book five times in a row, and he hopes that it will change and he hopes that it will not, and when none of the words have moved he only feels lost. He wonders if, when it does change, it will have been worth it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had these really sick typewriter fonts for this one and i'm so salty i can't add them in. yes every chapter will contain me complaining about the fonts i had but can't put in here. fight me.
> 
> that was the first and last time he kidnapped a kid, by the way. i was rereading it and i wasn't sure if it was completely clear lmao oops sorry if i'm just stating the obvious


	3. a little rain.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little rain never hurt nobody.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the minimalist piece we had to do so naturally it's mostly just dialogue. once again it's focusing on the killer and once again his name isn't mentioned but a certain character trait is touched upon that will probably reveal his identity. so. yeah.

"I don't wanna play right now."

"Let's go play."

"I'm sick."

"The fresh air will help you."

"It's raining."

"A little rain never hurt nobody."

"Rain hurts my chest."

"Shut up."

"I'm serious," he said. "It's sometimes hard to breathe."

"Well," he said, and he looked at him, "we'll go slow. Or take cover somewhere. Come on, bro." He poked his shoulder, his side.

"I don't want to." He swatted at his hand, missed, and looked at him. "You go play."

His eyes were pleading. "Let's go play."

"You go. I'll be okay here."

His eyes were pleading. "Let's go play."

"John, I can't."

"I can help you," John said.

"No, you won't."

"I can. I will."

"You never do. You never even wait for me. I always have to chase after you."

"I'll help you," he said. "I swear I will. But first you have to come outside with me."

"I'll be okay in here. He's sleeping."

"He won't be for long."

"He always sleeps a long time."

"It's already been a long time. He'll wake up soon, and he'll be mad." He pulled the covers over his head. John shook him a little. "Mom's at work. She can't help us. We should play."

"He was drinking a lot. I bet he'll stay asleep."

"He never does."

He dared to glance at the door through a slit in the sheets. John tugged at his sleeve. "Come on," he begged. "Let's go play."

"I don't want to play." He said, as he kicked off the covers and stood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow this one actually didn't have any cool fonts for me to be pissed about i'm a little disappointed.
> 
> tbh i love these kids a lot. their sections are two of my favorites in the whole damn game.


	4. lost and found.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you don't know the identity of the killer by now i'm not entirely sure what you're still doing here but i would advise that you step away from this chapter until you do.
> 
> this is everyone, and the killer.
> 
> the first italicized bit about rainy weather was the actual prompt but the other starts are italicized anyway bc its changing characters and it looks nice and i ONCE AGAIN had awesome fonts for all of them and i cant put that shit here
> 
> and in case you're not aware bc it wasn't mentioned in game, madison was a war reporter and that's the source of her insomnia. i allude to it in her bit so i thought i'd just say it in case

_**lost and found.** _

* * *

 

 _Once during a long season of rainy weather_ , a man got lost. Except he wasn’t lost in the sense that he didn’t know where to find what he was looking for — it was more like, he didn’t  _know_  what he was looking for. A man? A child? A father to save him? Another son to lose? The person to contradict it all, or the one to finally end this search? A confirmation, a rejection. An end, a start. A familiar face, or somebody strange. An old tattered dog. He can never find that dog. Max, Max, Max. He always tries, but it’s never right. Max, Max, he can never find Max. Maybe that’s the point of it all? To find him. Someone close to him. Not John, though. He knew where to find John.

 _Once during a long season of sunny weather_ , a man lost someone. Not in the sense of,  _where did he go_  — well, maybe in the sense of where did he go, because what  _does_  happen when a person goes that way? When their eyes go all dark and their skin goes awful pale?  Their body goes one way but what about the inside, the rest of them, the  _them_  bit? But it wasn't all like that. It was… it was mostly in the sense of,  _he is gone, and I know where to find him, but it doesn’t matter, it’s not_ him _him, he is not there_. He is not really there. Like that. Always like that, over and over in his head, and he doesn’t know what to do. He blamed himself for it all, they did too. It’s probably just easier that way. He was the father, and he was the son. His responsibility, his failure, his fault. He figures he’s half a father now, and that’s better than the nothing it threatens to become, but what kind of father could he be anymore? What kind of father just loses his son?

 _Once during a long season of cloudy weather_ , a woman lost her way. It was half in the sense of,  _where the hell am I_ , and half — mostly — in the sense of,  _where did the rest of me go?_  It was a strange and arid place, where she found herself, all the cracked dust and old dirt looked the same, she couldn’t count the turns she took under the bullets in the air. She wasn’t supposed to be there, not really, she didn’t fit, not at all, or not at first. It molded her, she supposed, changed her shapes so the squeeze wasn’t so rough, but still, she didn’t quite fit.  _They_ were the ones suffering, and fighting, and bleeding, and dying, and suffering, all for love, all for their families, all for their country, all for justice, all for what? And all she did was snap some pictures, write it all down. She remembered when the blood soaked through her three layers, when it blotted out all the ink and the words, jammed the trigger to her camera, and wondered if that was when her sleep ran away.

 _Once during a long season of snowy weather_ , a man lost himself, in every sense that the word entailed. He cannot remember a life without that  _gnaw_ , a life without that  _knot_ , that  _need_ , that  _pull_. He times all his minutes by the tremors in his fingers, and counts all his hours with the blood leaking from his nose. His days go by with the pounding headaches, and his nights are spent with the ringing in his ears. He can’t remember what he looks like anymore, probably flushed and grotesque and red-eyed and  _rabid_ , because any reflection makes him flinch back with this biting, burning hate. He imagines that’s what it’s like, for a vampire and the wicked sun. He can’t remember sleep either, there is only that devastating, dreamless euphoria when he finally gives in, when he holds it to his nose, breathes in rough and harsh, when he takes it again and again and again. It’ll kill him, he knows. He knows for sure that it will kill him but maybe he just doesn’t care.

 _Once during a long season of rainy weather_ , he found something, but he couldn’t tell if it was what he wanted to find, nothing like the first, a contradiction and a confirmation, and he just didn’t know; and he found someone, not who he had lost but someone different, someone old and new, someone who made that half a whole again, he’d always been there but not quite like this, not quite so bright, not since that lonesome failure, that fresh loss; she did not find her way or her crooked pieces or her old, long gone sleep, but she made herself something new, found herself somewhere fresh to fit, somewhere comfortable, and it didn’t chafe around the edges and she could see her way through the sunless sky and she could close her eyes, she could rest; and he couldn’t find that missing soul of his, that old man he used to be, that old reflection that didn’t hiss or scratch or burn, but he thinks he’s finding someone now, he thinks he’s finding someone he might like to be, and he thinks he isn’t dying yet, not quite yet, no, because he’d like to see the sun someday, he’d like to see that blazing sun, because maybe, he thought, they all thought, things were starting to clear. This had been a long stretch of heavy rain, and people always got lost in the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i already complained about the fonts up above but that aint gonna stop me from doing it again. each character had a different one and i liked it a lot but nooooo that's not allowed here.
> 
> anyway, that's it for now. let me know what you thought. maybe i'll write more, but if i do i'll stick them here.
> 
> also, in case you're wondering; the order went scott, ethan, madison, norman, and then all four once again in that order, separated by the semicolons.


End file.
